


Too Close to Demise

by FuniFuni



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Burns, Character Study, Demise Sucks as a Master, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Ghirahim Needs A Hug, Hurt No Comfort, Hylia Created Ghirahim, I swear can we just bring back Demise to kill him again?, Metaphors, Pre-Canon, Self-Worth Issues, Victim Blaming, Violence, angsty, he deserves it, mild ending spoilers, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuniFuni/pseuds/FuniFuni
Summary: To Ghirahim, his master is everything. To Ghirahim, his purpose is to be an obedient sword. And wherever the warmth has gone is none of his concern. He just needs to be perfect.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	Too Close to Demise

**Author's Note:**

> So uhhhh....this is dark. Beware the tags, and if you're fine with em, hope you enjoy~ Tell me if I need to bump up the rating, I'm really bad at guessing them. And I hope Demise dies again and again in Hell. I hate him so much.

His consciousness is barely there. Words are barely comprehensible. The world is a black void. The only thing he can feel is some strange tingling located somewhere beyond his reach. He's floating in a vast pit of nothingness. He searches for something, anything. What's happening? Who is he? Why is he here? Where _is_ here?

And then there's warmth. Warmth enveloping him, caressing him, murmuring sweet nothings to him. He no longer feels stranded, rather he feels safe and still. The warmth drives the questions from his brain; none of them matter. Only the warmth matters. He likes this warmth, he decides. He would be glad to remain like this . And it seems the warmth likes him too, staying with him for quite awhile. Eventually, the warmth doesn't feel as prominent as it had been at the beginning, loosening its hold despite him wanting it to stay. He doesn't want to be alone again. But it doesn't leave, just distances itself from him and he can still feel it, some part of it always holding onto him no matter how far most of the warmth goes. He wonders why its going away. He wants it back.

But then there's cold. Maybe its not that bad, he first thinks. But that thought is soon gone. It feels like a suffocating grip around him, trying to draw him out without caring whether he wanted to be or not. It's so unlike the warmth, gently coaxing, always humming. The cold burns, feeling far hotter than the warmth had ever been. It feels like it's shoving its way into his very core, burning everything in its path like acid. He doesn't like this cold. But the cold likes him and doesn't let go no matter how much he wishes it to. The warmth has not come back, even the parts that stayed with him seeming far away. He misses it. The cold seeps into his very being and he feels _wrong._

After too long with the cold, the warmth is back, but it seems different somehow. He cannot place it, but it just is. The warmth seems to flicker in place, growing colder at random moments before brightening again. It's still not as hot as the cold, but not as warm as it had once been. He wants it to come and save him, take him from the cold and sing to him. He wants it to regain its comforting heat and for them both to stay together. For one hopeful moment, the warmth begins to thaw him, but it never gets rid of the chilly tendrils surrounding him.

The warmth is gone.

There is only cold.

He tries to struggle against the cold, his newfound enemy. It chased his warmth away, it couldn't be good no matter what it whispered to him. But with a few terse words he couldn't understand, the cold had overwhelmed him, breaking his will and stopping his fighting. If he felt paralyzed before, now he was encased in ice. There was no trace of the comfort he felt mere moments ago with his warmth, only the burning cold. And soon, the cold had even driven away his thoughts, containing the last bit of hope that his warmth would ever return to him. No more warmth, no more cold, just nothing. Maybe that is all it had ever been.

—

Birds chirped. There was a warmth on his skin that felt both familiar and new, and the stone floor's chill seeped through his bare back. Opening his eyes saw a matching stone roof high above his head, complex designs engraved into it. Nothing looked familiar to him, and yet he knew exactly what everything was. His breathing was seamless, his mind was calm.

He just laid there.

He existed.

The near future of having to eventually get up felt like it was forever and a day away.

The metallic and pungent scent of the air finally registered in his nose after many moments and his face screwed up. What was causing such a horrid odor? He turned his head to the side to see if the cause of the smell was within sight.

He didn't know what he had expected.

A woman dead was not it.

Her long blonde hair was knotted and matted with the blood that spilled from her body. Puncture wounds on her torso, slashes on her arms and legs, scraped skin at the side of her head. Her skin, once lightly tan, was now stained blue with bruises. He imagined that she would've looked like the sun had she still been living and uninjured. He wondered if she had been as warm as the sun, too.

Maybe he should've been repulsed by the fact a dead body was so close to him—almost close enough to touch, he noted—but he felt nothing other than a dim curiosity of how she had died.

"Stop gawking and get up already."

His head snapped up, craning to get a look at the speaker of that voice. Even before he laid his gaze upon that-that fiery _brute_ of a creature, he felt shivers rolling down his spine. The man's voice was like ice injected straight into his bones, making him ache and tremble. Not even the dancing flames of the man's hair, slithering back and forth like snakes ready to strike, felt warm. The heat never reached him. The deep black of the man's scales reflected the light of the fire.

Still laying on the floor, head craned uncomfortably to keep the man in sight, he felt an uncontrollable urge of...something. He didn't know whether he was meant to run or kneel.

So he did neither. He remained laying, casting wary looks at the man. He was huge, muscles everywhere, but unarmed. Which was odd. But he did not question it. He didn't need to know. But more frightening than the danger coming from the man's body was the danger coming from his eyes. Red like the blood on the floor, red like rage, red like the flames licking at the man's shoulders. The shade of red that just _dared_ him to disobey the man's orders. He found himself shrinking into himself at the sight of those eyes, but snapping words sent him hurtling to his feet.

"I said, GET UP!"

As soon as his feet were steady on the ground, he automatically dipped into a bow. The man let out an amused chuckle.

"Seems the little sword knows respect."

Little...sword? What? He didn't understand. Was that what he was? A sword? But he didn't _look_ like a sword...

"Am I..?" His own voice was smooth and deep, not betraying that he hadn't used it before.

"Yes, Little Sword. You are. I _made_ you." The man's face twisted into a smug smirk. "You see her?" He pointed to the dead woman on the ground. "She tried to take what was rightfully mine. I took it back. And you were made in the process."

Ah, so the woman had been in the wrong after all. The man was just trying to deal out the necessary justice, even if it was a little violent. He could get behind that. It was honorable to dispose of those the world did not need. Even if he wondered what she would have felt like, how warm she might have been, it was for the best that he could not.

Distantly, he wondered what was everyone called. He himself was easy enough to figure out. The man called him Little Sword, so Little Sword he was. But his creator...what to call him? Well, it wouldn't hurt to ask, would it? Probably not, but the red of the man's eyes was still focused solely on him.

Little Sword nodded at the man in acknowledgment before asking, swallowing the lump in his throat, "What shall I call you?"

"Master."

Little Sword nodded, mumbling a 'yes, master' in confirmation.

"Now let us leave here, Little Sword," Master said, turning towards the big stone doors of the entrance. Little Sword stumbled after him. "We don't want her to wake back up before we're gone, now do we?"

"No, master." Little Sword shivered. His whole body was bare and despite the decent temperature in the temple he and Master were in, he felt freezing. But one thing Master said stuck in his mind and the room seemed to drop another handful of degrees. "She's...not dead?"

A bitter, horrible laugh slithered out of Master's lips. "Of course not. She cannot be killed with such weak weapons. Infuriating little witch..."

Little Sword glanced back at the bloody body of the woman. No matter how much she looked like the sun, like she was meant to be trusted, she was dangerous. Master couldn't defeat her, she would come back for what Master had taken back from her, she would hurt him. Little Sword's heart pounded as he thought about all the chaos and bloodshed she would cause. He didn't want to be around when she woke up. Master would keep him safe from her.

Master grabbed Little Sword's wrist, dragging him to the door. "We are leaving. And you'll put clothes on once we arrive in the Demon Realm, understand?"

"Yes, Master."

—

It has been just over a week since Master Demise had taken Little Sword—now named Ghirahim—to the Demon Realm. There he was given a wide variety of clothing to choose from, delicious meals he had never tasted before, and a room of his own. It wasn't very big, his room, but it was his and he cherished it.

He cherished his master, too. His master, who never did anything cruel to him. His master, who kept him safe, with a roof over his head, food in his stomach, and a purpose. Master just didn't want Ghirahim to get in the way, that was all. That, and not to cause any trouble for Demise. Those were the only two rules his master had set for him, and he was determined to follow them.

But of course, not even a month into his stay, he had messed up.

Demise liked for Ghirahim to appear at his council meetings. Ghirahim didn't know why he was wanted there, but Master was proud of him when he showed up, so he did not question. It was not his place.

His heart pounded as he dashed down the corridors of the demon palace. What would Master do to him when he got there? How disappointed would he be? Ghirahim did not want to know the answer. He never wanted to be late to this or any council meetings he had to attend. He did not want to disrespect the man who created him. But everything was against him that morning. He overslept for the first time, servants kept bugging him, he got lost. And now he was late.

Wheezing gasps left Ghirahim's pale lips as he arrived at the doors to the council room. He took a minute to steady himself. _Breathe, breathe._

Feeling a bit more steady, he pushed the doors open just enough to slip through a crack and slinked to his master's side by the large obsidian throne. He knelt. Daring not to raise his head, he stared at the cracks between the shining red tile.

But he wasn't dumb. Even with his heart still pounding in his ears, he could hear the freeze in conversation. All eyes on him. They burned like fire pokers in his skin. He swallowed.

And then conversation resumed, most likely at Demise's command. The demon king was powerful, everyone knew that, and it didn't matter if you had opinions you thought were right, only his were the true correct answer. Everyone followed him, his rules. If you didn't...well, it wouldn't be pleasant. Sometimes Ghirahim heard the screams coming from deep within the building as he wandered the corridors.

He did not want to become one of those screams.

He could practically feel the disappointment rolling off Master in waves, and each second he sat there, perfect on his knees, the dread choked him more and more, to the point that if Demise were to order him to talk, Ghirahim would only be able to mutter stuttered fragments of words.

Absolutely unacceptable.

This was no way for him to behave. Demise was his master, he had to pull himself together so that he would not mar Master's image.

But he just couldn't stop.

He couldn't stop the fear. He couldn't stop the shame. He couldn't stop the desire to run out of the council room. His heart got louder, deafening him.

But he forced himself to remain, digging his nails into his palms. He would not embarrass Master any more than he already had.

After way too long, the meeting was over, and the demons filed out of the room. They were silent the entire time.

"I'm sorry, Mas-" Ghirahim began. His voice did not waver. It did not sound true enough. He could've done better.

"Stand up." No yelling, that was relieving. Demise must be in a good mood. It would not do to ruin it further.

So Ghirahim stood and faced his master, eyes focused on the bare, scaled feet in front of him.

"Look at me," the demon king growled.

Ghirahim hesitated for only a second before doing as he was told, but he barely caught a glimpse of the man's face—furious, absolutely furious— before his head was snapped to the side. His eyes were blown wide. His cheek started to burn.

Demise...had slapped him.

Ghirahim barely had enough time for his lips to widen in shock, brain still reeling to catch up with his body, when his pale hair was snatched up in a fist. His head was forcefully yanked back to look up at Demise.

His eyes looked like blood. His mouth was open in a snarl. His hair whipped widely behind him, waiting for the chance to burn.

Ghirahim's breathing sped up, chest heaving, and he almost missed what Demise said next.

"You were late. What is your excuse, sword?"

"I-I'm sorry..." he whispered back. He did not have the air for anything louder.

"WHAT IS YOUR EXCUSE?!"

His master's hand tightened in his hair and he flinched.

Nothing Ghirahim said would be good enough for Master. Anything he said would just make things worse.

"...No excuse, Master. I'm sorry for disappointing you..."

"Disappointed?" Demise echoed with a humorless chuckle. "No, you didn't disappoint me." His hand slipped from Ghirahim's hair and trailed down to his neck. The touch was so light that at first Ghirahim thought that maybe Master had lost his anger. But then the hand wrapped tight around his throat and he remembered.

Demise _never_ lost his anger.

Demise slammed Ghirahim against the wall, hard enough that the sword felt his bones rattle. Ghirahim let out a choked whimper.

There was smoke on Demise's breath as he leaned in, heat radiating off of him. And yet he still felt cold.

"You _embarrassed_ me in front of the whole council. I told them that you would be there every time, and having to answer why you _weren't_..." He trailed off, tightening his grip before loosening it and stepping away. "If you pull a stunt like this ever again, I will not show mercy. Understand?"

Ghirahim nodded quickly, rasping, "Yes, Master." He could feel the bruises starting to bloom on his skin.

"Good," Demise turned away, walking back towards his throne. "Now leave me. I do not wish to see your face for the rest of the day."

"Yes, Master." Ghirahim scurried away, as quiet as he was when he entered.

His heart was still pounding, breath still coming quick, knees threatening to give way when he entered and locked himself in his room. His fault, it was his fault. All his fault. If he was not late due to such _stupid_ reasons, Master would not have needed to be angry at him. Master didn't want to hurt him, he just wanted to teach him. It was Ghirahim's own fault for being so stupid that he couldn't follow the very simple rules laid out for him.

He needed to learn.

And he did.

He would never be late again.

—

The time was finally here.

He couldn't believe it was finally here.

His hands shook, not from fear but from excitement.

For Demise had made him Demon Lord of the Surface.

Ghirahim never thought that he'd make it this far without a mistake. It had been months since he was late to that one fateful meeting. It had been months since he had dared disrespect his master like that. He was learning and it was paying off.

To say that he was blinded by excitement would be an understatement, for his first command as Demon Lord had been executed in secret, even to Demise. Looking back, Ghirahim knew that it was a foolish decision. Looking back, he knew he shouldn't have done it. But in the moment, all he wanted to do was make Master proud. Make him proud with the way he fought and strategized. And what better way than with some newly acquired information about the other side in their little war? Maybe they'd be able to identify the leader of the Goddess' creations at long last. Maybe they could uncover their next moves. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The possibilities were endless!

But of course there were also endless possibilities of failure. And fail Ghirahim did.

His stealth troops had been all wiped out, failing the mission. One singular Bokoblin corpse had found its way back to the palace, delivered straight to Demise himself. All at once, sitting on his knees in the throne room as Demise studied the corpse with cold eyes, he regretted never telling Master about his plan. Maybe if he had told Master, then Master would go easy on him, or would have quite probably shot down the idea before it had started.

Now..?

Now with all of Ghirahim's mistakes..?

His eyes never strayed from the floor, back ramrod straight, and hands clenched tightly in his lap to stop the trembling. It would not do to show weakness now.

He never knew what moment it was that Demise turned on him, with those raging, fiery, cold eyes. He never knew when it was that the messengers left with the dead Bokoblin body. Never knew when it was that he became a shame to his master.

Maybe he was always a shame.

And that was nothing if not his own fault.

He knew that Demise was talking to him. He knew that Demise expected an answer. But Ghirahim could only sit there, eyes on the tile of the floor. His ears never understood what Master said, the sound being muffled and sharpened and distorted all at once until it was just some sort of angry gibberish.

There was a hand, _burning, freezing,_ wrapped tightly around his arm. It dragged him up and out of the room and he felt as though his skin was being torn off where the hand touched it.

As much as it hurt, though...he could not speak. No scream nor whimper passed his lips. His eyes were still on the tiles.

This was what he deserved. He had made a mistake and now Master was displeased with him. Ghirahim wonders what Demise will do to him. What will his punishment be now that he had made such an atrocious error?

He sharpened his hearing, trying to understand the furious words still coming out of Demise's mouth, and succeeded for a short time. Long enough to hear: "now the Goddess' dogs have tightened their defenses!" His hearing fizzed out once more.

Whatever hallway they were rushing down seemed to go on forever, and Ghirahim wished for it to be over so that his mind and body could catch up to each other. But then, when Demise abruptly stopped in front of a thick metal door surrounded by the clinking of chains and begs of the prisoners kept within similar rooms, Ghirahim found himself wishing that that hallway never ended.

He knew it was selfish. He should accept his punishment willingly and he wanted to. But he didn't want to be thrown into one of these cells. He'd heard what the wardens did to the prisoners and he was _scared._

One last effort at regaining his hearing heard Demise say, "You will stay here until you learn your lesson. Do not repeat your mistake."

Ghirahim should've replied, should've accepted his punishment, but his vocal cords seized up and they refused to work even as the metal door was slammed open on its hinges and he was thrown inside. The door closed just as quick as it had opened, leaving him in complete darkness and complete silence.

His breath hitched and he scooted back into the far right corner, wrapping his arms around his knees as soon as his back hit the wall.

His fault.

His fault.

HisfaultHisfaultHisfaultHisfault.

He still hadn't learned his lesson.

He was still not good enough.

He needed to be better.

He needed to be smarter.

He needed to be useful to Master.

But...maybe it was Master's fault too? He had barely thought the words before they were crossed from his mind. No. Master never makes mistakes. If he did, then why was he in such a powerful position? He was respected by all, unlike Ghirahim, so that meant that Master made no errors, he was flawless and merciful and Ghirahim wasn't dead yet so he should be thankful. He would never question his loyalty in Master, because Master deserved it. Master would not like such thoughts of rebellion. So Ghirahim must make sure to never think them.

He gave a small, shaky smile to the darkness.

Never question Master.

Time passed. He did not know how much and he did not move, the hunger biting at his stomach and the thirst blistering this throat. It hurt too much to move.

This was an genius punishment for sure.

Ghirahim could feel the lesson being stabbed and burned into his skin with every ticking hour, with every sunrise and sunset. Neither Master nor the wardens visited him, and that was fine. He had to work through his mistake himself. He would be a disappointment to Master if he needed help realizing and learning from his mistakes.

After many days in the real world, but what felt like only one very, very long one to Ghirahim, the metal door opened, significantly slower, quieter than the last time it had been opened. There, in the doorway, stood Demise, his master.

Ghirahim's face lit up and he ducked into a low bow on his knees. "Master!" he cried.

"Little Sword," Demise said, breaking out the old nickname. He must've been in a good mood. "Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes, Master," Ghirahim said quickly.

"Good. Now come here, you can leave now."

Ghirahim got to his feet for the first time in days and he swayed dangerously, black spots dancing across his vision. But he steadies himself with a hand to the wall, and before he can question himself, goes as fast as he can to Demise's side. To his sheer delight, Demise rewards him with a heavy hand on his hair and an approving look.

"You did well, Little Sword."

"Thank you, Master." The smile that crossed Ghirahim's face was filled with all the joy he had in him.

He had made Master proud.

—

There she was.

She shone like the sun on a warm Summer's morning, seemingly thawing Ghirahim's soul.

Her hair was bright and smooth, all yellow like sunbeams, none of the previous reds from nearly a year before when she was lying motionless on the floor of her own temple.

Even from this distance, Ghirahim could see the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, even with her perfect lips set in a frown, and he wondered what her laugh would sound like.

She held no proof in her face, in her body, in her stance, that she had been injured. She was perfect, in every way, and he entertained the thought that maybe he was hallucinating even though his master had told him of this.

He couldn't help but gawk.

What should he do now? Master could not defeat her. She looked angry. What should he do?

Should he even do anything..?

She felt so warm...

Unthinking, Ghirahim took a step forward towards her, and another step, and another, completely ignoring the other creatures surrounding her. Completely ignoring the questioning screeches from his own monsters. There was something about her that drew him in, like metal to a magnet, like a moth to a flame. He knew that he would not be able to sleep at night without going to her at least once.

An unplaceable emotion flickered over her face at the sight of him, but it was gone as soon as it came, the Goddess adopting a hard expression instead. Her bright blue eyes narrowed in a glare at him and her soldiers readied fighting stances.

He froze, a mere handful of feet away from her.

What was he thinking? She was the enemy! He couldn't just waltz up to them. That's how he'd end up dead! She held no affection towards him, and he shouldn't hold any towards her, either.

Ghirahim barely had time to kick himself over his dumb decisions before a shiver crawled across his spine. Hylia's gaze was trained on an area over his shoulder and Ghirahim realized that she wasn't glaring at him, rather someone standing behind him.

A wave of fear washed over him and he swallowed the lump in his throat. Schooling his face into a smile that he hoped was steady, he turned around.

"Mast—"

A swift backhand sent him stumbling.

"Silence." Master's tone was dark, and Ghirahim steadied himself hurriedly, keeping his head bowed and posture tight. He knew that they would discuss what Ghirahim had been trying to do when they got back to the palace.

Master was angry. He could not let himself anger Master more. Disobedience is not an option.

"Hylia," Demise said.

The Goddess' soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons.

"Demise," Hylia replied.

Demise's own group of demons and monsters that had joined with Ghirahim's nearly forgotten group growled in anticipation.

No other words were exchanged.

And the battle began.

XXX

Ghirahim's wounds wept scarlet on the matching tiles of the palace entryway. He was far better off than other soldiers. Far better off than the enemy. Far better than soldiers on their side. He was still in one piece, even with his sword form being chipped and cracked from multiple heavy blows. Others were missing arms, eyes, heads. But how long he would _stay_ in one piece...that was debatable.

Master was fuming. Blood from a head wound fizzled and steamed from where it came in contact with his hair. His hand was tight and unrelenting on Ghirahim's arm as Demise led him through the hallways of the palace. They were eerily empty, only their footsteps filling them.

Blood dripped down Ghirahim's spine and mixed with the dried areas of the liquid. Together they caused his skin to pull uncomfortably at itself while sticking and chafing against his white bodysuit. He mourned the loss of the material, having been torn and stained a multitude of times, but that feeling was overshadowed by the all-encompassing dread heavy in his stomach. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, tickling his skin, but he dared not look up from his feet, let alone brush it off.

Why? Why why why? Why did he do that? All Master had wanted from him was obedience. Bring a force out to the front lines and chip away at the Goddess' defenses. Don't be seen. Come back alive. And what did Ghirahim do? Sure, he brought the force out, but within the first few hours the Goddess had already known of his presence and came to stop him herself. Now that wouldn't be all that bad if only Ghirahim hadn't stood there like a fool, letting his guard down. He even entertained the thought of going over to her! The only thing he had succeeded in was escaping with his life, but even that was just barely. The fight between the two sides had ended in a draw. Ghirahim knew that he would've lost if Demise wasn't there.

No wonder Master was mad...

Ghirahim knew that he deserved whatever punishment his master had in store for him. He needed to make up for his mistakes.

But that didn't stop his fear.

Demise said nothing in their trip to the dungeons, but his heavy footfalls, his wild, flaming hair, and the force of his grip on Ghirahim's arm spoke volumes.

A silent anger was a deadly anger.

Demise didn't pause in his steps as he slammed the cell door—the same cell from many months prior—open, the pathetic moaning of the other prisoners falling silent. With much more force than what was needed, Demise dragged Ghirahim in, kicking the door closed with a bang. The only light to be found was the raging flames of Master's hair.

Master's silence was broken.

"You fool! Do you know what you could've done?!"

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry, Master." Ghirahim bowed his head, looking all the part of the regretful servant.

Demise ignored the apology. "Are you sure you know? Because you were looking all taken with the Goddess earlier."

"I—"

"Do you know what that could've done? Do you know what your distraction could've cost me in this war?"

"Master, I'm—"

"SILENCE!"

Ghirahim flinched as Demise's chest heaved with the force of his yell. His master's flames were crackling, fizzing, popping, his bare feet leaving oozing red marks in the metal dungeon floor. Demise stepped forward, the marks following him. Ghirahim inched backwards.

"You..." Demise seethed, smoke trailing from his mouth, "do not deserve the right to speak."

A cruel hand grabbed a fistful of Ghirahim's hair, tugging harshly. Ghirahim resisted the urge to try and pry it off. He still needed to exercise obedience. If Master said he deserved this punishment, he did.

But it hurt. He didn't like it.

With his new grip on his sword's hair, Demise yanked Ghirahim's head back, forcing eye contact.

"Tell me, Little Sword." Master's volume dropped and his voice took on an almost calm quality. Maybe...maybe this punishment wouldn't be as bad as Ghirahim thought. "Were you planning on betraying me? Is that why you approached Hylia?"

Ghirahim's mouth shot open, about to protest the very _thought_ that he would betray his wonderful, merciful master when he remembered.

Master had told him not to speak.

But now Master wanted him to speak.

Which did he choose?

Ooooooohhhhhh.

This was a _test._ That's what this was! Ghirahim would not speak. This would certainly make Master happy. Making up his mind, he shut his mouth without a single sound being released into the air.

A few seconds passed and Demise realized that Ghirahim was not going to answer. He growled, low in his throat. "Why do you not answer me, Ghirahim?"

Silence.

"Tell me!"

Gulping, Ghirahim said weakly, "I do not deserve the right to speak."

A smile twisted Demise's face. But it was cold. And it sent shivers racing down Ghirahim's spine.

 _Wrong,_ his mind screamed at him. _Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong!_

His back met the floor, cheek stinging from the impact of his Master's fist. Breaths started to come quicker as Demise's cold, wrong smile distorted into a snarl, all sharp teeth, all danger. A scalding foot slammed into Ghirahim's chest, knocking whatever breath he had gotten out of him in a short scream. The sound of his flesh burning and breaking mixed with the sound of his scream to echo throughout the cell.

"Maybe," Demise growled, "you'll learn your lesson after this. And if you don't..." He pressed harder against Ghirahim's chest and the demon's hands came up, clawing at the thick, scaled calf.

"I'll learn!" Ghirahim wheezed. "I promise, Master, I'll learn! I'll be perfect, I swear!" That must've been the right thing to say, for the weight on his chest lessened until it was gone completely.

"I'll be back tomorrow. Do not expect food."

Ghirahim laid there, on the cold, metal floor, catching his breath as the door creaked open and slammed shut.

Demise was gone.

No more punishment for today.

The burning in his chest turned to numbness. The desperate want for the pain to stop was gone. All there was in its wake was just...

Void.

Nothing. It was as if all emotions had been sucked from Ghirahim's chest, leaving him a hollow puppet. He was not the one breathing, he was not the one with a sore throat, he was not the one with the bloody, fiery burn in the shape of a foot on his chest. That was all some other demon.

Ghirahim just floated. Floated between consciousness and sleep, floated between reality and fantasy. Ohhh, how nice it would be when he finally learned. How nice it would be when he was finally _perfect_. He would get Master's love, no doubt. He just had to _be better._

He was shaking. Why was he shaking? Oh. Laughter. That's odd. Nothing is amusing him.

His cheeks were wet. Why? Was there a leak in the ceiling? No. No, it couldn't be that. Oh. He was crying. Odd. There was nothing to be sorrowful over.

Why is he laughing and crying?

All he felt was empty.

XXX

Days passed. Demise came and went, bringing pain and punishments to fill the gaping hole in Ghirahim's chest. Nothing even hurt anymore. It only tingled and stung. He begged Master to punish him more, he needed the pain, he needed to learn his lesson. _He needed it._ Demise was happy to oblige, and distantly, Ghirahim knew that he had sustained too much damage to function even half as well as before. But at this point, he didn't care. He just needed more. He needed to fix himself, and for that...he had to break.

After a fortnight, after multiple broken bones and torn skin that mended together flawlessly time and again, after multiple scorch marks that marred his pale skin like a disease before they too disappeared, he picked himself up off the floor.

He trained. And trained. And trained. He pushed himself harder then ever before, to the point where he no longer slipped on the blood slick floor, to the point where he could do three hundred pushups with one leg and one finger. To the point where the burn of tearing his muscles to rebuild them stronger and stronger became his new pain when Master was gone.

He needed to be perfect.

He was so close.

And after a month...Demise thought he was.

He came in the cell, all glowers and flames like normal. But gentler. He didn't slam the door, his feet didn't leave red marks in the floor or in his skin, his hands were relaxed, such a contrasting sight from the tense, burning fists of the last few weeks.

He crouched in front of Ghirahim who was leaning against a filthy wall, voice calm and low as he said, "Have you learned your lesson, Little Sword?"

"Yes, Master," came the hollow reply.

Demise's lips twitched up at the corners.

"Good little demon. You know I don't like hurting you, right?"

"Yes, Master."

Firm arms engulfed Ghirahim's much smaller body and the sword spirit was tucked into a hug.

A spark of hope lit up in the void in Ghirahim's chest.

Was Master proud? Of him? Was he finally perfect? Did he regain Master's love?

He melted into the embrace, but dared not give it back in fear of what he gained being taken away. He would be happy with what he had. His arms were too weak to move anyway.

"It would be a shame," Demise said, "to lose you. What you did before with Hylia...it could've gotten you killed. That would've been a great setback towards our goal. I need you, Little Sword."

Master...needed him? Ghirahim teared up. Master needed him..!

"Am I perfect yet, Master?"

"Yes, Little Sword. You are. I have no doubt that you will keep following my orders with no mistakes. You are the best servant I could've asked for."

The praise made him bold. It stoked the little spark of hope in Ghirahim's chest until it was a small flame. He risked another question.

"Have I made you proud, Master?"

The hold around Ghirahim tightened and Demise's voice was tense, struggling to hold onto that pleasant and calm tone. "Yes, you have."

"Do—"

"Enough questions, Ghirahim," Demise interrupted. "Let us leave this filthy cell. I will have another task for you tomorrow, after you get some rest."

Oh. That was okay. Ghirahim still got two questions answered. Master's mercy was truly outstanding to be so plentiful towards one lower in rank. "Yes, Master."

Demise picked up his servant, Ghirahim limp in his arms, and they left the cell.

This war _would_ be won. For Master.

—

His core was shattered. His stunning true form was scratched and chipped. He was no longer perfect. But that didn't matter because _Master was back._

But maybe Master would not like his imperfection? Would his battered form upset him? But he completed Master's task. Master would surely be proud.

But Ghirahim had thought the same before.

Decisions he thought would earn him praise instead earned him beatings and scoldings. His chest ached at the thought of a long gone burn.

But he was certain that this time Master would truly be proud. Ghirahim had completed his life's purpose. He had brought back Demise like he was told and if he was still useful to Master he would continue to serve him. Surely, surely Demise wouldn't be upset with him, for he had done nothing wrong.

But what if he had?

He did not want Master's cold eyes filled with scorn directed at him. He did not want his master to call him a disappointment. He did not want the punishments that were doled out even though he fully deserved them. He did not want Master to have to deal with his idiotic mistakes.

He was scared of failing.

But that could not show.

—

By his side is warm.

It's not like Demise, who felt cold no matter how hot his flames burned.

Ghirahim is reminded of the Goddess in Link's warmth. But it's different.

The girl, Zelda, she feels more like the Goddess, as she should for she is. But she still doesn't match Hylia's warmth completely.

The different shades of warmth confuse Ghirahim at first but he gradually comes to distinguish them.

Link feels welcoming, accepting, protective, like a warm summer day caressed by a breeze.

Zelda feels calm, secure, empathetic. A lovely spring morning.

And Hylia...she just felt like the sun. Unattainable, burning, but needed.

If he was being honest with himself, Ghirahim quite preferred Link and Zelda's warmth over the Goddess'.

And this warmth...they accepted him into their home. Accepted him on Skyloft shortly after Link had found him, a fact that still surprises him sometimes late at night. He had thought that that night in Faron Woods would've been his last, if Ghirahim hadn't been the cause of his own death, then something else—quite possibly the hero—would've.

But no.

Link came stumbling upon him, on some stupid fetch quest, and found him. Of course they fought a bit. Ghirahim had to prove he wasn't weak after all this time, had to prove that he was still as strong as he had been, that he hadn't broken, but when it came down to it...

Perhaps Ghirahim was a little weak to a sunny smile and a supporting ear.

That same smile tempted him, and he ended up on a trip into the skies. It could've been a trap. He could've been dead. Looking back, Ghirahim knows how stupid that was of him. But it was worth it even with the struggles that came with.

The physical touch Ghirahim received by both Link and Zelda the next few weeks after he came to Skyloft shocked him. It wasn't rough, it didn't leave bruises, it wasn't out of necessity. That was the only touch he had felt, so why were these two doing something else? Something new? He didn't like it...

What was the point of it then?

Turns out the point was just that it feels good. And Ghirahim certainly cannot deny that. He knows that if he had felt this kind of caring touch hundreds of years prior...perhaps things might've been different. However, the touch still makes him flinch once in a while. Maybe one day he would grow out of that.

Sometimes Ghirahim dreams of Demise.

Now that wasn't odd. It had happened many times before while Ghirahim lived in the palace with Demise and during his mission to bring Demise back.

They didn't scare him as much then. It was all he knew.

But now...now he knows something better, now he actually knows what love feels like, and it's not what Demise had taught him. It's not doled out in punishments and scoldings, not rough or cold, it's not the hammering need to be perfect drilled into his skull. It's talking, it's hugs, kisses, gifts, listening. It's knowing that he doesn't need to be perfect.

It took awhile for Link and Zelda to unteach that lesson, replacing it with their new, far better one and sometimes, Ghirahim has to admit, he still goes back to old ways. But after every bad dream, he has someone to turn to. Link's warmth pressed against him, always willing to soothe him enough until he can go back to sleep. Zelda making it clear her door's always open whenever he needs a companion to read and talk with.

Ghirahim doesn't feel like he's hated. He feels like he's safe, like he's wanted, like he's not a burden to his new companions—his new friends.

He's lived in coldness his whole life. But now he feels warmth.

And he never wants to go back.

**Author's Note:**

> And there was that! Hope you enjoyed, I certainly enjoyed writing this. I could go on about how awful Demise was to Ghirahim in canon and in my headcanons for days, but I'll spare you all. Things mighta gotten a little confusing here and there, so if you have any questions about what happened in places, I'll be glad to answer them for you :) Have a good day/night and stay safe!


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